


Reflection

by disgruntledkat



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: ignore this if you don't know what it is lmao
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-27
Updated: 2020-03-27
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:34:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23340283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/disgruntledkat/pseuds/disgruntledkat
Summary: Matt Murdock has made a choice that he'll come to regret. (Read the note for context, baby! Not meant for a big audience, this one's for the boys B* )
Kudos: 4





	1. Consequence

**Author's Note:**

> Hi all! If you're here from just browsing AO3, you're going to have no fucking idea what this is. This is a collection of posts from a roleplay chat, where Matt Murdock has made a deal with Mephisto to go to Hell in exchange for Elektra's life. On top of Netflix show canon, there's plenty of chat canon in there, too, so if you're confused, this probably wasn't meant for you. You're still free to read it, though.

Murdock hits the mat! 

The referee's count is fast, and his gloves are gripping at the ropes, trying to get back to his feet-- Creel already has an arm raised, back turned to the man he just downed!

Murdock beats the ten count-- Creel looks like he's seen a ghost! And here comes Murdock, just a storm of hooks and jabs-- Oh!

Creel is out, ladies and gentlemen! That's a 9th round knockout for Battlin' Jack Murdo--

It always cuts out early. Matt can't pry himself away from watching the fight. The home around him was warped, cold, smaller than it used to be-- But the television hadn't changed. Every night. Sitting on the carpet, legs crossed, homework from the day tucked into his lap. Bout after bout, Battling Jack Murdock would get busted open, bruised, beaten-- But at the end of the fight, he's always on his feet. Even if he doesn't win. But not tonight. November 12th. 1996, nearing midnight. Matt Murdock is nine years old, and he's listening to the commentary broadcast of the match. Matt wasn't a child anymore, his body had outgrown his surroundings, and it was the first time he'd even been able to lay his eyes on the fight. Every blow still rung in his ears as sharply as they did that night. He watched his father take the beating of a lifetime. Then, watched him lay out Creel. Jack had tears in his eyes as he left the ring-- Something nobody had ever really noticed. Matt only knew it now, because he knew how his father hid his emotions.

The clock shifted a few hours in the blink of an eye. The television blanked out when the clock struck 12:20. The silence hung in the air like Matt had barely ever experienced. He slowly rose up to his feet. He knew what was coming next. Slowly, he lumbered through his old home, glancing at photos on the wall, photos he hadn't seen in years. Just outside the door, Matt could hear it. _BANG. BANG. BANG._ Muffled by the walls, it doesn't matter. Matt hears phantom footsteps patter through his home, past him. He can hear the door creak open, and yet, it stays put. He can hear voices outside, just by the alley. Muffled. Indistinct. Nothing Matt cared about. Not then, not now. The only words Matt can make out come a few seconds later.

"Dad?"

Matt's hand grips the handle of the front door, and when he opens it, he's lead back into the living room. He has no idea how long he's been here. The remote for the television worked. He knew it did. But for some reason, he hadn't touched it. He supposed he was scared of what else could be there. Maybe every channel was the same thing. Maybe they were something worse. Matt had run over this trauma every day of his waking life already. Every gunshot he heard reminded him. Every time he stepped into Fogwell's and sparred with a sandbag until his knuckles bled and his lungs begged for a respite. Every time someone he cared for died in his arms. This was a cross he carried every day of his life. A cross that he had learned to grapple with.

“There's been a change in programming, Matthew.”

The screen blinked a few times while Matt looked around for the source of the voice. It was unfamiliar, ethereal, cold as you could expect for a place like this. When Matt’s eyes fell back onto the screen, there was a title card. _Matthew Michael Murdock-- This is Your Life!_ Bright yellow, gaudy text, juxtaposed over the sematary across from his church. The weather was overcast as the title card faded away. It slowly faded to a familiar scene-- Home. His apartment. He watched himself, a slightly younger man, groan awake, laid out on his couch, covered by a blanket and poorly stitched up. His old costume and rags sat next to him on the floor, and, slowly, as he tried to bring himself up, another figure entered the frame.

“Wouldn’t do that if I were you. Then again, maybe I would. What the Hell do I know about Matt Murdock?”

Foggy’s anger with Matt was palpable. Even through the screen. Matt remembered the frustration. Disappointment. All the questions-- Nothing quite cut as much as “Are you really even blind?” Because Matt was barely even able to respond. He squirmed and groaned as he tried to move, and tried to explain himself. Foggy didn’t trust him. Foggy never trusted him again. And then, a hard cut, back to the church. Overcast had turned to outright rain, and the shot hung over an empty grave. No headstone. No casket. No body. Matt felt like he was sinking with the television, deeper and deeper, until things faded to black.

A break. A break for Matt to sit back and stew in his own fears. His regrets. Matt had a moment to take in the silence. 23 years of everything being all too much, never stopping, and suddenly… There was nothing for him to hear. For him to smell. His mouth tasted like metal, and his entire body had been numb. He felt like he’d been given too much morphine, and he had finally begun to slip away. Slip away into the real Hell, the Hell he had been expecting. He’d been preparing his entire life for Hellfire, screams of the damn, lashes for all eternity-- But being alone with nothing but eerie silence and his sight, it was… 

_“It’s a goddamn distraction, Matt.”_

The television was back on. A cold warehouse. Matt’s footsteps echo in the halls as he runs. It feels like he’s alone, even though he knows he wasn’t. _“Elektra!”_ He shouts as he busts through the door, finding her standing over Stick. The softness in her voice when she returned the cry with his own name tightened his chest, then and now. He pleaded with her. She exchanged pleasantries for a moment, and Matt watched her blade run straight into the ground. Stick groaned as he felt the life drive out of him. It was a terrible death. One that wouldn’t kill you instantly, one that you felt every moment of-- But one that you couldn’t recover from.

Matt felt the same sting in his chest. Like he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t swallow-- Couldn’t do anything. He wanted to grab at his throat. He didn’t. The television blinked a few times before turning off again. He slowly laid back on the couch, wheezing, losing all power to keep his eyes open.

Somewhere new. Somewhere different. Somewhere Matt hadn’t been before. The sematary. Rain fell across his shoulders and his hair, glasses tinting the world red. The first time he’d seen it this way. Matt looked down at his feet-- In an empty grave. Slowly, a group gathered around him. He couldn’t make out their faces. There was nothing obscuring them, but there was a haze over each of them-- He wanted to speak, ask their names. He couldn’t. His names were on the tip of his tongue, but, when he tried to speak, nothing came out. Matt counted six people. 3 women. 3 men. One of the men, stout, and the only one dressed in a suit, slowly walked around the grave, next to the headstone. Matt’s headstone.

“I knew Matt for the last ten years of my life,” the man said. The voice was familiar. Warming. “But I feel like I really only met him a few years ago. Not… Not everybody here was on the best terms with Matt. Some of us have things that we wish we could have said. Some of us wish we hadn’t met him to begin with. Some people that Matt would want here… Aren’t.” Matt felt himself sinking lower into the ground as every word passed. He looked around to the other faces. One of the women had left. Matt looked around, trying to look where she had gone-- Curled up on a bench, trying to keep herself together. From a distance. One of the men had his arm around the other. Matt turned back towards the man next to his grave. “He wouldn’t want us to stop our lives for this. He thought this was his duty. His mission. I objected. Claire objected to it.” The man shook his head. “But he’s gone now. And he’s not going to come back. So we have to come to terms with it, because… He did what he wanted to do. He saved this city.”

“But he died in the process.”

Matt continued to sink as the speech went on, and, as the last words were said, he was finally engulfed in the ground. The dirt obscured his vision, and soon enough-- He was falling. No noise, no smell, no sight. Just that sensation of your organs shifting as you plummeted. Then-- A crash. Matt fell back into the seat of his couch, watched the TV buzz back to life, and listened to the opening bell of the match.

Tonight, at the top of the card, Carl ‘the Crusher’ Creel fights Ba--


	2. Face-Off

Matt had gotten to exploring other parts of his home. The kitchen was cramped. The walls were so close in together, and it felt like there was clutter on every surface. The dinner table was still covered in first aid equipment. Blood droplets on the table, seemingly never drying, and a perpetually half full bottle of scotch-- Matt even opened it. Took a sip. This was hours ago. It felt like fire in his throat, real, genuine fire, charring his throat. He’d left it alone since. His hands shook as he opened cupboards, fearful of most of his surroundings by now. They were empty. Like they always were. The clocks here didn’t seem to move unless it was telling him something. That it was time for something new. That’s why, when Matt laid his eyes on the stove clock, and saw the hands approaching 7, he wasn’t entirely sure what to make of it.

“Matty!” Matthew could hear his father’s footsteps thundering on the street, just outside the door. Matt turned towards the front door and watched it bust open, finally getting to see his father. Seemingly, living, breathing flesh. He stood shorter than Matthew now, and seemed to pay no mind to the grown man inside the kitchen. Instead, he storms right past him, and back towards the living room. The television had turned back on, he could hear it-- And he could hear someone breathing in the living room. Matthew followed behind his father, and, once they were both into the living room, stood over his shoulder, staring down at the ground in front of the television. Slowly, Matt Murdock, aged eight years old, turned his head towards his father, just barely, before looking back to the TV. "Hey, dad." Jack shook his head and continued to approach. “Matty, look at me.” The boy didn’t respond as Matthew followed behind his father. This wasn’t something he remembered, but it strung at his chest with a familiar sting. This wasn’t fake. This was something that was being pulled out of him, dragged, kicking and screaming, from the recess of his mind. Jack leaned down and grabbed his son by the arm, tugging him up to his feet, face to face. He was nicked and bruised, bringing a groan out of Jack. He took a few steps back, running his hand over his mouth for a moment, looking off into space. “You been fightin’ again.” Matt looked down at the ground, arms slowly coming up to cross. "What about it?" Jack scoffed, almost laughing at his son’s statement. “What-- What about it? Matty, I told you-- I told you you can’t be getting into fights. What was it over?” Matthew’s mind finally clicked, and his mouth followed along with his younger self. "Some kids said you were a bad boxer." With all the retrospect in the world, Matthew knew that his dad… Wasn’t a great boxer. But when he was eight, his dad was the greatest boxer in the world. Probably the best in the world at everything he did, as long as it wasn’t cooking. In some ways, he still was. But watching this-- Hurt.

Jack was clearly getting more frustrated, and, the closer Matthew got, the clearer the smell of whiskey was. It was hard to identify as a kid. He used to think bars smelled like his dad. He can finally see that it was usually the other way around. Jack’s arm extended out and grabbed Matt again, yanking him forward, forcing him to look up. “Matty. Look at me right now-- You don’t fight nobody, you hear me? I don’t care what the Hell they’re saying, you don’t raise a single goddamn fist.” Matt’s face curled up in anger before he spat words back at his father, "I’m not scared of fighting!" Matthew stood by and watched as Jack barked back, “You watch your tone,” raising his arm, and bringing his hand down across Matt’s face. Matthew winced as he watched himself fall down to the ground. He could see Jack’s face melt from anger to distress, falling down to his knees. “Jesus-- Matty. Matty, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to do that, I--” As he spoke, his words became softer and softer. Matt started to feel more and more distant. Matt could hear his own heartbeat. Thump. Thump. Thump.

“If that man was a saint, what do you think you are?”

Matt’s vision fades out. And now, he’s back on the couch. Slumped into the same divet his father would sit in. Nothing felt right-- His head stung, and his vision was flickering. He slowly peeled himself out of his seat, stumbling ahead of himself, taking balance against the wall. I need to get out of here, is the only thing he can think. Matt lumbers through the hall towards the front door, tripping, trying to steady himself on the kitchen table, before gripping the door handle. With a turn of the knob, the door swung open, Matt falling forward with it. This time the other side of the door wasn’t just the living room. It was nothing. The world spun around Matt as he fell, landing face first in a splash of shallow water. The room was completely red. Featureless-- Walls so smooth and evenly lit, that they looked like they could go on forever. Matt looked down at his own hands. Gloves. From his suit. He slowly reached up and touched his face, feeling his mask, before looking back at the door. It was gone. Slowly, Matt pushed himself up to his knees, looking forward at the only furniture in the room. Two chairs. A table. And a man. Dressed like him. Smiling. 

“Dex?”

Benjamin sat at the table, his hands folded in his lap. He looked the same way he did on the night they faced off against each other and Kingpin, but here, in Hell, his posture was off. He was sitting upright, but there was a clear hunch. Through the tough fabric and armor, the ridges of his vertebrae were visible and unaligned, shifted out of place. And, although the cowl hid his eyes, a burning sense radiated from them. His smile was unnatural, but in an indescribable manner. Everything about Poindexter was wrong and so real.

“Took you long enough, Murdock,” He hums, motioning to the chair across from him. It slid out and faced to Matthew, inviting him to sit. Dex placed his hands on the table, fingers tapping in a rhythm. The rhythm made a song, and slowly, the soft drone of a violin filled the void. It came from all around, carrying a haunting tune. “I will say, I’m not surprised you’re here. Shocked, but not surprised,” He spoke nonchalantly, speaking with his hands during this. Now that there was music, no reason to keep himself occupied. “But, damn, it’s good to see a familiar face. Oh,” He perked up, motioning to both their outfits. “A little too on the nose, hm?”

He refocuses to the void, scowling. He placed a finger to his lips and the violin grew hush, an ambient noise now. Benjamin looked back apologetically, laughing like it was an inside joke the two of them carried since they met. He adjusted how he sat, kicking his feet up on the tabletop. “I should clarify: I’m not looking to fight. We’re both dead, we’re both in Hell. If you want to fight, go ahead, but fighting never works out well for Murdocks, does it?” And there is that smug grin that he wore so proudly.

Matt struggled to get his legs under him, crawling towards the table. His arms clung to the seat of the chair before lifting himself up, leaning back in the seat, dragging himself closer. He could barely look at Dex, but, he was the only thing his vision would focus on. Everything else was blurry, flickering, like it wasn't meant to be there. But Dex sat across from him, sharp as a knife, seemingly without a care in the world. His body was grotesque. Warped. Like something insidious had been stuffed inside that suit without it's permission. His gaze drilled holes in Matt's head, and as Matt pulled himself up to straighten his back, his hands sat on the table in front of him, as far from Dex as they could be.

"Why are you here, Dex?" It was a simple enough question, that Matt had trouble enunciating. His voice was hoarse, sore, like he'd just been screaming. Matt hadn't spoken in days. Matt hadn't spoken in... Days. Weeks. Months-- However long he'd been down here. Time didn't pass. Not how you'd expect it to pass. It stripped you of any sense your body had-- You lost your internal clock, your sleep cycle, everything. Everything by twisted design. But this felt strange. None of this felt right. Somewhere, deep and dark, Matt had hoped Dex was dead. Matt hoped that somebody else had done it. Frank, maybe. But coming face to face with him-- Matt's body felt like it was the one decaying, turning to ash and sinew. Dex seemed calm. Controlled. Happy. "Not... Not Hell. We both know why you're in Hell. Why are you here? With me?"

“Because you went looking,” He kept from spitting the words, pulling at loose fabrics. “Whether you want to admit or not, you were searching for someone, anyone that you could talk to, because you can’t stand the memories. I should know.” The music was interrupted by someone yelling, a large pillar lifting from the abyss. Suddenly, Wilson Fisk was charging the pillar with Poindexter in his arms, slamming the unhinged man into it. When the impact was made, the image shattered into tiny pieces, and Benjamin sighed heavily.

“That was a painful night. Everything leading up to that was painful, too.” For someone who could be so easily set off, Dex spoke about it without rage, with hints of boredom. He tilts his head up, looking at the great nothing that continued on for miles and miles. “It’s my turn, Murdock. Why are you here? You’re a God-fearing man, there’s no reason you should be here. Unless, of course,” He flicked a hand, a shit-eating grin curling his lips. “You lost your way, if you even had one to begin.” His teeth were yellowed and rotten, and some of them were chipped to the point of resembling fangs. “And I’m not talking about Daredevil.”

"Selflessness." Behind Matt, figures appeared in smoke. Blurry. Hard to make out-- Just barely glowing, holding eachother. The back of the room crumbled on top of them, and things settled back into an eerie silence. "This is my way." Matt remembered that night clearly. Clearer than most of his memories here. He remembered every blow that landed on him, every strike he made, the feeling every bone split under his knuckles, every spattering of blood that crossed his face. Part of his mind made sure he remembered it was nothing to be proud of. But that roar whispered in his ear every now and then. 'I beat you.'

"I appreciate that you're trying to flip things onto me, Dex. But it isn't going to work. Men stronger than you, smarter than you, more sane-- They've all tried it on the witness stand. It's never phased me. It won't phase me now." Even if his lips were still able to lie, his surroundings couldn't. Behind Dex, out of his sight, the walls reflected images back to Matt. Standing outside of Jessica's door. Slumped over on Danny's couch. Hanging outside of Luke's window. Same expression of fear, guilt and doubt plastered across his face. He tried looking away. Tried focusing on Dex. But his horrific smile wasn't any more pleasant than having to watch himself hug Elektra one last time before being pulled into Hell.

“Matthew, I’m not trying anything,” He looks at him, the smile fading. “All I’m asking is why you’re here. Like you said, we both know why I’m here. But, what about you. What have you done that is just as bad as me?” Benjamin took his feet off the table and leaned in, somehow reaching closer than should be possible. The violin had stopped playing music altogether, opting for extending one note. A chorus of other string instruments joined in, a cacophony nearly overwhelming Dex’s voice.

“I mean, certainly, it couldn’t be the fact you are a compulsive liar. Or, you manipulate people so they pity you. How could Matthew Murdock, New York’s best lawyer, be anything but perfect?” There was a steady drum beat, thump-thumping away. “It must have started when you were younger, right? Yeah, you blamed yourself for your father’s death so people would pay attention to you, but certainly, you outgrew that.” Any smile had left Poindexter’s face, a simple, emotionlessly expression taking hold instead. “And, either you are going to have to agree with me about that, or lie, saying it isn’t true. Because deep down?”

He reached out, a finger tapping between the horns on Matt’s helmet. “We’re the same man. We both want attention, love. And, we don’t mind breaking a few skulls to get there.” The overwhelming stench of blood and bone drifted in from everywhere, and like rain, droplets of rain fell from the space above, staining the table.

Matt's hand came up, trying to grab Dex's wrist- and failing- before leaning in just as close. "We are not the same." Matt was desensitized to the smell. To the rain. To that taste of blood swelling in the back of his throat, the dried flecks shifting and cracking on his face as he spoke. He met with Dex's eyes, and his composure was starting to chip away just as quickly. "You're a sick man. You lie to feel loved, lie to yourself about being loved. You threaten people who don't love you into acting like they do, and when the truth comes out, you hurt them. We are nothing alike." Matt's hands started to clench into fists, the room around him coming more and more into focus. "I take responsibility for what I've done. For who I've hurt. My father. My friends. You..." Matt shook his head and smiled. "You belong here. I don't."

Something was funny, but not to Dex. The violins were laughing, screeching. More spotlights lit up behind Poindexter, and there stood figures, one under each spotlight. They were lined up, and they were all facing Matt. “You don’t have to punch someone to hurt them,” He sneered, leaning back and turning in his chair. The faces were obscured, too fuzzy to comprehend. Benjamin put a hand over his chest, sighing. “It’s almost funny, hearing you say everything, because if you would just look outside the box, you’d see the reality you’re too afraid of. ‘The Man Without Fear.’ What—“ One spotlight gone. “—A—“ Another. “—Joke.” Eclipsed.

Benjamin turned back, arms at his side. “You’re the biggest coward I know. You make a mistake, and you hide. Your friend calls you out on your self-loathing bullshit? You hide.” His voice changed drastically, booming through the void. “Your best friend dissolves your law firm because you won’t work on communication? You hide.” Poindexter grabs the table and throws it to the side. He grabs a hold of the helmet he wears, ripping it off, where instead of his face—

Ivory hair fell down to her shoulders, hot chocolate brown eyes filled to the brim with pain. She purses her lips, looking away. ”A girl with a loving boyfriend kisses you? You kiss back. And, worst of all? You leave.” Jessica turns away from Matthew, a hand held over her mouth. She falls to her knees, holding the helmet to her chest. ”Why did you leave, Matt? I thought you loved me, you said you loved me.” She looked behind herself, holding a hand out for Matthew. ”Please....”

Thump. Thump. Thump.

The music hit a crescendo. And then, everything fell silent. Matt's heart was pounding in his ears, louder than anything he'd ever heard before. He felt like his ribs were receding, suffocating him from the inside. His hands were melting from fists to something he could barely control. The room fell out of focus again, static, nonsense-- Just smoke and rubble. Matt's knees buckled and gave out underneath him. His body was failing him. He didn't know why, he didn't know how to stop it, but he could still hear his heart in his chest. He could barely keep his neck up to look at Jessica, but he knew that he needed to.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Was he a coward? Matt had been called as much by people he respected more than Dex. Even if he knew this wasn't Dex. Even if he knew this wasn't Jessica, or Foggy, or Danny-- All of them, at one point or another. Matt Murdock. Liar. Coward. Bastard. He'd felt all his life that these were traits that nobody wanted someone around them to have. That he'd be better off hidden from them. Isolated behind his mask. He felt his helmet clatter to the ground in front of him, looking back down at his hands. No more suit. Just black robes, tattered, torn- stained with blood. "I didn't leave. I said I would be back. I promised, I--" The robes tore themselves apart, falling to the ground, melting into the void. All that was left was what he had been taken in. A black dress shirt. Slacks. His shoes. And his glasses. The red tint of the room fell away as his glasses clattered against the ground, shattering like a piece of brittle ice.

"I'm not weak. I'm not weak," he repeated to himself.

Thump.

His vision continued to fade, room getting darker and darker, his own voice getting softer and softer.

Thump.

"I'm not weak. I... I can't be." Matt finally collapses, and the world just seems to turn off.

Thump.


	3. Oneness

Back home. Really home-- The same neon glow from outside the windows, buzzing in his ears. Striking his face with light. Everything was red, but as his hand came up to his face, he wasn’t wearing his glasses. He flinched at his own touch, looking at the tip of his finger. Blood. Matt looked down at the rest of himself-- Shirtless, bandaged, stitched, bruised, bloody. Any adjective that had been tacked on to him at some point, he was back to that. The lights in his home didn’t work, even when he tried running his hand over the switch. It didn’t even make a noise when he flipped it. Nothing was making a noise. The last time the world was this quiet, Matt was coughing up debris and viscera somewhere in the pier. It was unsettling. His footsteps were louder than they need be, and his breath was labored. Heavy. He crashed into the couch, trying to take a few deep breaths.

Things were slow now. Slower than usual. Matt almost felt as if his life had returned to normal, that he’d finally been let out of Hell. Peering at the door, waiting for… Someone to walk in. He still wasn’t entirely sure who he wanted it to be. Images shifted in front of him-- The Defenders, piling in one by one, drinks and party favors in hand. It slowly faded. Just Jessica. A night without drinks. Sitting next to him. Even if she wasn’t there, the arms that curled around him still stung his wounds. The arms slowly became more familiar, nails morphing to a point. He didn’t need to look to know that he was thinking of Elektra. He shut his eyes, and felt the touch recede. A few moments of silence before the couch groaned. New weight. Matt’s eyes snapped back open and looked to the side. Foggy. A younger man, too. Foggy’s hair needed to be cut, badly, but his warm smile was comforting. Just for a moment. Then Matt watched him fade away too.

"What do you really want, Matthew?"

Matt turned, smelling the hair, trying to spot who was speaking. "Who’s there?" A sigh. "It doesn’t matter who’s there, Matthew. I asked you a question. What do you really want?" As Matt’s head turned back forwards, he jumped back in his seat as he was faced with something in front of him. His suit. With no hole for a face, just-- Smooth, red, unflinching. Expressionless. Red eyes peering back at Matthew. "Because I think I know what you want." It took a step back, taking a seat in the air opposite of Matt, mimicking his posture. Every shift, every twitch. "... I want to be happy." The voice laughed, soft and sweet, as the suit shook its head. "Wrong. Try again. There’s no sense in lying to yourself here, Matthew." Matt’s head hung for a moment, trying to take a moment to think. To admit.

"I want what I deserve." The suit slowly leaned in, trying to meet Matt’s eyes. "What do you deserve, Matthew?" Matt took a deep breath. "To be happy. To be with someone I care about, to keep them safe. To keep my city safe." Another laugh. "You’re still posturing, Matthew! You’re using lawyer speak to impress yourself! No, no, let’s make this simple. You want someone to hold you. You want someone to hold you when you come home, bleeding from your forehead, and you want them to stitch you up, and tell you that they love you." Matt frowned and looked away for a moment, before feeling his head get snapped back into position by… Something. "Unless… You don’t want to be stitched up. Oh, Matthew. Look at yourself. Even after death, you can escape the bleeding. That’s on purpose, isn’t it? You can’t escape it, because you like it. You do it to feel alive, you hurt people to make sure that they can see you." Matt shook his head, chuckling at the-- the absurdity of that statement. "That’s not true. That’s not true--" The suit leapt forwards, grabbing Matt by his neck. "It is! It is true! You put on a mask every day, pretend you’re a stable, normal man, then you go out at night and club people into comas because it makes you feel good. Your father asked you to be more than him, get educated, and sure, you passed that post… But it just wasn’t enough for you. You can’t even stop hurting people when you’re Matt Murdock." With every word, the suit approached, closer, and closer, until Matt blacked out.

He came to in the suit. His hands flexed in the gloves, and, much to his shame… It felt right. It felt good. Back on the rooftops of New York. This was the first time Matt had felt whole since he died, and it wasn’t because he was with a loved one. It wasn’t because he was in the warm embrace of the woman he’d sacrificed himself for, not the one he told he loved, or any of his friends-- It was because he had a billy club in his hand. Gripped tight. And out from New York, a lonesome, solitary scream. Part of him felt the usual concern. But his blood was pumping. His heart was pounding. He was excited.

It felt like he got there in an instant, bursting through the door, smashing out the lights. Hallways, full of never-ending cannon fodder. Matt heard every bone crack, every gush of blood on his face, every heart slow down as they were knocked out. His boot came forward to bust in the last door, and, as he knocked it off the hinges, the heartbeats stopped. The chorus fell silent, all that was left was a lone swinging light, and a woman in a chair. Bound. Fearful for her life. Shivering, cold, hungry and tired, she slowly looked up at the door, and for the first time in his life, Matt was able to meet Karen’s eyes. ”Why didn’t you come sooner, Matt?

Matt’s knees felt weak. There were two heartbeats in the room-- There was someone behind Karen. A laugh came forward from the ever-extending darkness, and soon enough… There was one. Matt watched Karen fall to the ground, eyes glazed over and wide. Then, the final heartbeat faded. It didn’t end. It simply got away. "I told you, Matthew. You can’t stop hurting people. Can you?" His jaw quivered, fists clenching, digging into his suit. "This isn’t real!" A pause came as Matt’s cries echoed through the empty space. "It’s preferable to the real thing, Matthew. We’re all guilt, no consequences."

Matt crept back into his apartment again an instant later, trying to tear his suit off his body. The latches, the zippers, the buttons-- They were all gone. His fingers tried to come up to his mask, as if he could rip through the kevlar if he got his fingers under it-- But he couldn’t. His face had been smoothed over. Melded into the mask. Red. Glossy. Unflinching. "Who knows what we want better than us, Matthew?"


End file.
